


beautiful boy

by pyladic



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Heavy Angst, M/M, Mercy Killing, The Author Regrets Everything, heed the tags for god's sake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 09:17:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17261591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyladic/pseuds/pyladic
Summary: Post-Borodino, magical realism-style





	beautiful boy

Finally, the dust settled at Borodino, and someone sounded the retreat, and Fedya took stock of his losses. A rip in his uniform. A gash along his forehead, clumsily bandaged with the first clean piece of fabric he could find. Infection here kills as easily as any bayonet wound, and if he dies in this war, he intends to do it in a more dignified way than that. Dying a hero meant recognition, meant that maybe the army will send a little money to his family after he’s gone. Dying of infection from a little knock to the head would get them nothing but ridicule.

More bruises on his knuckles, from when he’d lost his rifle for a while and had to fight his way out of a scrum hand to hand, before pulling a replacement off one of his dying comrades. That man wasn’t using it. What did it matter?

His tent opened, and one of the younger boys burst in, out of breath and ruddy cheeked. What was his name? Well, never mind that. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen, but what did that matter? War would make a man of him, or failing that, would make him see his own insignificance in the world. Either way, it was no great loss.

“What is it?” Fedya ripped a piece of cloth from the hem of his shirt and began wrapping it around his knuckles. 

“They’re sending out men to search for the wounded,” the boy said, breathless. “We’ve been called up.”

It was something of a surprise that they’d bother. The French hexing corps were good. Usually they didn’t leave much to be recovered, and it seemed like every wounded man they managed to bring back died within a day, wasting precious time and resources. Men who made it back on their own could sometimes be saved. Why not concentrate their efforts there?

Fedya sighed and reached for his pistol. Who knew what they’d come across out there?

“Fine,” he said curtly, and followed the boy out into the gloom. “Let’s go.”

The air reeked of blood, cannon smoke, and magic. It hung in the air in a fine mist, crackling green and blue. It was thick in Fedya’s lungs, unfamiliar. Not for the first time, he wondered how effective the French could be at this if they bothered to learn the Russian peasants’ folk magic. That was less distinguished, certainly, less refined, but just as deadly. The horrors he’d seen walking these battlefields was nothing compared to what two farmers could do to each other over a lost hand of cards.

The boy’s name was Pavel, Pavel Arkadyevich. He followed along a pace behind Fedya like a watchful shadow, his dark eyes wide, twitching at every sound. Christ. What was this, his first battle? Well, he’d learn, if he made it through the next one. 

It was hard to see anything in this pea soup, but across the field, he could vaguely make out the outlines of other men doing the same thing they were doing. Searching. And he could hear, too, hear the cries of the wounded and dying, see the silhouettes of arms reaching out for someone to come and find them.

“What will we do when we find someone?” Pavel Arkadyevich’s voice was quiet and unsure. Fedya turned back to face him, eyes narrowing in something like pity. 

“We’ll decide that when we get to it.”

They kept walking slowly through the mist and the muck, past body after body. Most were already dead, the others, on the verge of dying. 

Finally, they came to someone still clinging to life. Fedya knelt beside him in the mud, shaking his shoulder roughly. His face was spattered with blood, pale and drawn, the stomach of his uniform stained red. A gut shot. He wouldn’t live to see the morning, but at least it was a natural death. No curse would prolong his agony long past the point where he should have lost consciousness. 

His eyes opened.

“What’s your name?” Fedya tried to keep his voice as gentle as possible.

The soldier’s voice was weak and rasping. “Mikhail Semenov. From Novgorod.” He reached up, clutching Fedya’s hands. “Please – my mother. Tell her.” 

He felt a sting of sympathy at that. Who would tell his own mother if a bullet took him?

“I’ll see it done,” he promised, squeezing his hand. He reached out behind him, beckoning Pavel forward. “My pistol,” he said softly.

“What?” Pavel’s young voice was high and frightened. “Captain – you can’t be serious.”

Fedya turned to face him, keeping a hand on Mikhail Semenov’s shoulder. “This is war. Sometimes – The French have their magicians. They don’t have to see the aftermath. It’s – a man doesn’t deserve to die like this.” He paused, taking a breath. Mikhail was twitching now, making high, keening sounds in his throat. 

“There are always men like us.” Fedya’s gaze was steady. “Men to make sure he gets a clean death.” He held out his hand again, unflinching in the evening chill. “My pistol.”

Pavel handed it over.

The shot was good. Years of practice had made sure of that.

They kept going, collecting names, the shots ringing out, muffled in the newly falling snow. Boris Sergeevich. Pyotr Ivanovich. Gleb Varankin. Nastya Herschel, her dark red curls spilling out from beneath her cap. He’d long suspected, but turned a blind eye. Why shouldn’t she fight, if that was what she wanted? All their names would go up on the lists tomorrow, and he’d be long gone before their families collected what was left of their things.

“We should go in soon,” Pavel said. He dusted some of the falling snow off his cap.

Fedya’s eyes focused on one more body, reaching out feebly, half covered in snow. “Just one more.” 

He’d never have recognized him if it hadn’t been for his eyes, blue chips of ice staring out at him in a face swollen and veined in black. He’d seen this curse before. It had taken days to kill the man, eating him from the inside out and swelling him until he no longer even looked like a human being. 

Fedya didn’t remember kneeling beside him, but suddenly Anatole was reaching weakly up to touch his face.

“Fedya,” he managed, and something like a smile crossed his face, oh god, his face was going to split and swell and there’d be nothing left of the beautiful boy he’d been in love with for half his life. “I knew you’d be coming to find me.”

Anatole had never liked the way he disappeared after battles, haunting the battlegrounds like a ghost. But he’d always been there after, to help him wash the blood and grime off. 

“I told you to be careful, you bastard,” he whispered, cupping Anatole’s face in both hands. His skin was hot. It was starting already, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. The helplessness was twisting his stomach into knots, and Pavel was right there, hearing all of it, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. How many more minutes did he have before he was forced to decide? How many breaths?

Anatole flashed something like that old smile of his, that smile that had turned his knees to jelly at the age of sixteen and never stopped doing it since. “I thought you knew how bad I am with instructions.” His face tightened, his body spasming with pain. His hands were like a vise grip, digging into Fedya’s skin, but he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t. “I need you to do what you came to do, love.” 

Fedya made a choked sound. “Anatole, no. I can’t.” He’d rather take the bullet himself, he’d rather take the curse –

“We both know I’m not going to last.” Anatole’s voice was already starting to slur, his eyes falling closed. The curse would take him under fast, and then it would just be days of mindless pain. He’d watched it happen before. He’d rather die than let that happen to Anatole. “Come on, cherí, you know how vain I am. You think I want to end up like that other man?”

His hands are too tight on Fedya’s now, another wave of pain wracking his body. Fedya feels the tears choking him, but he can’t let them get any farther. He can’t let them fall.

“Don’t make me beg.” Anatole moves the pad of his thumb across Fedya’s palm. His eyes are losing focus, but they’re locked on Fedya’s face, like he wants it to be the last he sees.

Fedya takes a shaky breath and reaches down to move his muddied hair out of his eyes. “I love you,” he murmurs, but Anatole is already gone, lost to the pain, eyes glassy.

It feels like something has been ripped out of the center of his chest, leaving him vulnerable, an exposed nerve. Fedya holds his hand out behind him. The pistol is in his hand.

“Captain?” Pavel sounds frightened and young, far too young to be here at all. “Do you want me to --?”

He shakes his head. “No. No, private. That’s alright.”

This, he has to do himself. He’d never forgive himself if he let anyone else try. And there are always men like him, men to make sure that things are done right, that the job gets done.

Fedya takes one more look. Leans down to press a kiss to Anatole’s forehead. Stands and flicks the safety catch off.

Doesn’t take much aim from this close.

**Author's Note:**

> I would apologize but I'm really not sorry.
> 
> starting the new year off right bitches


End file.
